I spent an afternoon recently walking on Watership Down. Richard Adams, in his book inspired by the place, has one of his rabbits say, "from here you can see for ever", but on my visit, thick fog made it hard to see anything much at all. I loved the way that as I climbed up the hill, indistinct shapes grew in solidity and detail as I approached them, and faded back into oblivion as I left them behind. Past and future were both hidden; only the present moment was clear.

I'm the kind of person that usually has my eyes on the the future; what i'm doing later in the day, problems to be solved, things to plan, good times to come. The fog on the hillside was a forcible reminder to me that sometimes its good to be thoroughly immersed in the present; to recognise that this now is a never-to-be repeated gift from God, to be relished and treasured.

As I reached the bottom of the hill, the fog was thinning and giving way to cloud. For a few moments the clouds rolled back and a ray of strong sunshine pierced a world that had been drained of colour all day. I stopped and stared at the vividity of green in front of me.

Sometimes silent wonder is the only way to respond. But sometimes I take a photograph, too.